One or the Other
by Yvi
Summary: The tango scene, ripped off and rewritten.
1. One

()() Just in case anyone is unaware of this, Moulin Rouge belongs to Baz Luhrmann et al. I just borrow the characters, distort them, and surreptitiously replace them. On that note, this is my first-ever attempt at Moulin Rouge fic, so if they've been distorted _that_ badly, well, I'm new to the business. Excuses, excuses, I know…Ah well, please go read and comment/gripe/compliment/etc. all the same. ()()

They did not leave the dancehall. No one, so it seemed, dared depart. Nothing short of audacity, that would be, and this being such an unusual case. Anything might happen, there was no telling. Even those who had been with the Moulin Rouge the longest had never borne witness to an even slightly similar situation. 

And so they stayed, a stone-faced audience staring out from the darkened floor. An unspoken rapport passed over the group, quiet and complex as a spider's web: take a chair and get comfortable, sit it out until someone brings news and shatters the suspense, sit all night if need be. One doesn't simply stand up and leave in the middle of a show. Obviously. 

Someone distributed glasses, cigarettes were passed around, and several minutes rolled by, swirling the liquid, exhaling the vapors, until at last they ran out.

Hours later, they were still there. 

Speech had long since degenerated into sporadic sighs, and even those seemed earsplitting. Every sound was amplified alarmingly within a silence so agitated it was almost tangible. In spite of the tension, motion of any kind had ceased to serve any purpose. Heavy curtains swung lifelessly, sluggishly absorbing the slowly thickening cloud of smoke. Hovering beneath, stationary cigarettes drooped between motionless fingers. The room, large and silent, yawned around them. Eyelids still smeared with gaudy makeup lowered to half-mast. Deadpan faces drifted to rest on neighboring shoulders, leaving behind flesh-toned smudges. Nobody slept. 

Occasionally, somebody would tap one of the leftover cigarettes and ashes would fall. And sometimes, within the collection of worn stockings and straining corsets and thin white shirts, there would be the sound of a cough, muffled and faint, or the dull clatter of a glass being set upon a table. In her customary black, she sat blearily surveying the glass in her hand. Then he strode forward.

The staccato stamp of his boot on the hardwood floor resounded like a cracking whip.

"We have a dance …"

Heads turned, lackadaisically curious, groping through the tension for another subject to settle on. She set down her drink, mouth and eyebrows arching at the sight of his outstretched hand. Hardly knowing why—he was beckoning to her and her alone, that was why—she stood, unsteady on high heels and buckling ankles. His voice seemed to come from very far away, as if from the end of a tunnel.

"…of a prostitute…"

Somehow she managed her way down the stairs and off the stage. She stumbled once, pitching forward, but quickly covered by emitting a laugh that echoed for several seconds amidst catcalls and titters.

"… falls in love. With her."

Her eyebrows lifted again. With surprising smoothness, she held her hand out to meet his. All eyes were on her, she could tell; inwardly she smiled in satisfaction. Let them watch. Scarcely hearing his words, she felt her feet begin to move in the sharp, suggestive steps of a dance she was sure none of the others had ever learned. One, and two, three… Yes, let them watch.

"First, there is desire," he rasped as if lecturing before a group of schoolchildren. One rough hand fluttered down her arm with something closely akin to tenderness—surprising coming from him, but then he was an actor— his motions matching hers.

"Passion!"

One, and two, three… A thumb caressed her face and she masked a shiver with a sinuous turn of her head. Perhaps the schoolteacher analogy was a bit inaccurate.

"Suspicion!"

One, and two, three... the tempo was picking up, or was it the spinning of her own head?

"Jealousy!"

One, and two, three… definitely the tempo; she quickened her pace, skidded on one heel when he abruptly spun her around.

"Anger!"

One, and two, three… his voice was ringing in her ears and she gasped in spite of herself… a wild twirl nearly sent her tumbling to the floor, but he immediately yanked her in another direction. 

"Betrayal!"

One (hand clasping suddenly on her wrist), and two (eyes blazing with an almost demonic fire), three (fingers digging into her skin)…

"When love is for the highest bidder…"

His words were lost to her now, coming only in snatches. She felt herself falling behind and determinedly quickened her steps again, heels clapping against the floor like the trot of a frightened horse. A rapid glance over her shoulder told her that they were still watching. 

One, and two, three… Whenever she seemed to catch up, he moved again, rapidly, unexpectedly, like a tormented character onstage. It was less a dance now, she decided hazily, and more a play. But it was a play for which he held the only script. Better keep dancing then; there were steps to follow for that, at least. Her breath was hissing between her teeth, his grip was painful. No one is ever hurt onstage, she reminded herself, discounting the fact that they were dancing before it rather than on it; everything is an act. Yet when he tugged her fiercely to one side, she found herself stifling a cry.

"… there is no love!"

Etcetera, etcetera. She found him pushing her away, then pulling her back, one hand still clamped painfully around her wrist. Possibly she cried out then; she had stopped paying attention to anything other than remaining upright. 

"And jealousy—yes, jealousy!"

_Yes, jealousy._ A thought flitted through her mind, nearly caused her to lose her balance. Another violent twirl. _Jealousy.****_

His eyes caught hers for a moment. "Jealousy! Will drive you…!"

_Will drive you, will drive you, will drive you…_

"**Mad!**"


	2. The Other

There was an electricity in the air that had nothing to do with Zidler's renovations. She put out one foot, endeavored to spin around on her own, and found, whether by drink, nerves, euphoria, anger, or something else altogether, that she was barely able to support herself. Unexpectedly, he released her and she stumbled back, rubbing her wrist until a pair of arms, the owner of which she did not notice, clasped her from behind.

The others had moved; she had not noticed that either. Some of them formed a ragged semicircle nearby. The unidentified arms loosened their hold on her; with as much strength as she could muster, she raggedly pirouetted. Seemingly out of nowhere, a new pair of arms swept down and caught her. Slowly lifting her head, she twined her own arms around their owner's neck. Emmanuel, that was his name. He had smooth hair and a serious face and she busied herself accordingly. 

And Emmanuel twirled her until she was dizzier than before, and then Andre was there, and then Laurent, and then Ainsley, and then Gabriel, and then Nadien... 

And then there was another there, and another, and another until she no longer attempted to recognize them. "Taking it all in, the drunken little nymphomaniac," she thought she heard someone hiss, but the words of one were of scant importance when compared to the attentions of many. Moments later, she ceased bothering to hold herself upright at all; one of them was always there to do that for her. Her arms and hands she maintained control over, passing them over smooth faces, rough faces, sleek hair, tangled hair, countless numbers of cotton shirts and strong shoulders. 

She never remembered when she began detaching herself from the silent mob and walking away, only the small surge of triumph she felt in seeing the disappointment that flickered across the faces she slowly pulled away from. That was power, she knew, pointedly meeting several pairs of eyes. With an incongruously aristocratic air, she willed strength back into her rubbery legs and made her way back to the stage without much difficulty. They were still watching, though more of them had begun moving onto the floor. They took other partners, beginning voiceless conversations of their own, dancing on without her, and within moments all eyes but his had left her. Of their own accord, her lips tightened. It would be different if… 

She looked over at him and cocked an eyebrow. He rose again.

It might have been his hands that supported her for the next few minutes, or he might have released her to another after a time; either way, she always seemed to end up opposite him. She pondered this until someone cast her aside and she found herself alone in the middle of the floor, her wrist throbbing once more while her eyes suspiciously darted through the crowd.

Were some of them eyeing her with disgust? Were more and more of them moving away from her? Would they have behaved the same way if someone other than herself stood in her place? Almost frenzied, she squeezed her eyes shut, tracing abstract patterns with her arms in the air above her head until at last someone seized her roughly around the waist, digging whalebone into her flesh. 

A new circle had formed and she was tossed, more like a rag doll than a dance partner, among the men it consisted of, until they become unrecognizable, only a blur of shadowy faces. Reaching out her arms, she threw her head back and laughed. When that became a strain, she grinned; when that required too much effort, she felt herself going limp. It was out of control now; she was a pawn, not a queen—the metaphor swirled through her mind, strangely lucid—and there was nothing to be done about it. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a new face, upturned as if in pain, eyes squeezed shut. And she let her head fall back with the languor of a courtesan, metaphors and reality alike conflicting within.

There was, she had long ago realized, a nauseating difference between the Sparkling Diamond and one of those endowed with the crude honor of being one of the thusly-nicknamed Four Whores of the Apocalypse. The latter was only part of a whole, while a diamond, perfect and multifaceted, was everything in itself. Words formed, voiced to herself alone as another hand pushed her into the grasp of yet another: "A person'll grunt and grapple with a whore whether the apocalypse is on its way or not, but you're always good to diamonds. You can't be one of you're the other, diamond and whore both." Probably, she thought abstractly, there would still be diamonds even after the rest of the world ended.

Her eyes opened a slit as somebody's hand closed around her wrist, and she saw, across the circle, that no one had left. Still watching.

Watching her, not as a star, but as a spectacle. That was another difference.

They all fanned out around her then and no one, not even he, made any move to catch her when her legs gave out at last and she fell along with her thoughts—_right, a diamond would never get herself caught in a situation like this or called a drunk to her face or have to scream for attention instead of having it come to her itself_. Far away, she caught another glimpse of the upturned face before a polished brown surface replaced her line of sight.

Whore, diamond, whore, diamond, whore, diamond…

One, and two, three… 

Ah, it was the floor.

…one, and…

Diamond, whore, diamond, whore, diamond, whore…

…two…

And who the hell—she thought, not able and not caring enough to break her fall—is Roxanne? 

…three.


End file.
